Hotel

A waiter reported to a captain, the captain to the head waiter, the head waiter to Andre Lemieux.

"Chef, there's a gentleman says he doesn't like turkey. May he have rare roast beef?"

A shout of laughter went up from the sweating cooks.

But the request had observed protocol correctly, as Peter knew. Only the senior chef could authorize any deviation from a standard menu.

A grinning Andre Lemieux said, "He may have it, but serve him last at his table."

That, too, was an old kitchen custom. As a matter of public relations, most hotels would change standard fare if asked, even if the substitute meal was costlier. But invariably - as now - the individualist must wait until those seated near him had begun eating, a precaution against others being inspired with the same idea.

Now the line of waiters at the serving counter was shortening. To most guests in the Grand Ballroom - latecomers included - the main course had been served. Already bus boys were appearing with discarded dishes. There was a sense of crisis passed. Andre Lemieux surrendered his place among the servers, then glanced questioningly at the pastry chef.

The latter, a matchstick of a man who looked as if he seldom sampled his own confections, made a circle with thumb and forefinger. "All set to go, Chef."

Andre Lemieux, smiling, rejoined Peter. "Monsieur, it seems we 'ave, as you say it, fielded the ball."

"I'd say you've done a good deal better. I'm impressed."

The young Frenchman shrugged. "What you have seen was good. But it is one part only of the work. Elsewhere we do not look so well. Excuse me, monsieur." He moved away.

The dessert was bombe aux marrons, cherries flammes. It would be served with ceremony, the ballroom lights dimmed, the flaming trays held high.

Now, waiters were lining up before the service doors. The pastry chef and helpers were checking arrangement of the trays. When touched off, a central dish on each would spring to flame. Two cooks stood by with lighted tapers.

Andre Lemieux inspected the line.

At the entry to the Grand Ballroom, the head waiter, an arm raised, watched the sous-chef's face.

As Andre Lemieux nodded, the head waiter's arm swept down.

The cooks with tapers ran down the line of trays, igniting them. The double service doors were flung back and fastened. Outside, on cue, an electrician dimmed the lights. The music of an orchestra diminished, then abruptly stopped. Among guests in the great hall, a hum of conversation died.

Suddenly, beyond the diners, a spotlight sprang on, framing the doorway from the kitchen. There was a second's silence, then a fanfare of trumpets. As it ended, orchestra and organ swung together, fortissimo, into the opening bars of The Saints. In time to the music, the procession of waiters, with flaming trays, marched out.

Peter McDermott moved into the Grand Ballroom for a better view. He could see the overflow, unexpected crowd of diners, the great room tightly packed.

Oh, when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints go marching in . . . From the kitchen, waiter after waiter, in trim blue uniform, marched out in step. For this moment, every last man had been impressed.

Some, in moments only, would return to complete their work in the other banquet hall. Now, in semidarkness, their flames reared up like beacons

. . . Oh when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints go marching in ... From the diners, a spontaneous burst of applause, changing to handclapping in time with the music as waiters encircled the room. For the hotel, a commitment had been met as planned. No one outside the kitchen could know that minutes earlier a crisis had been encountered and overcome ... Lord, I want to be in that number, When the Saints go marching in . . . As waiters reached their tables, the lights went up to renewed applause and cheers.

Andre Lemieux had come to stand beside Peter. "That is the all for tonight, monsieur. Unless, perhaps you 'ave a wish for the cognac, in the kitchen I have the small supply."

"No, thank you." Peter smiled. "It was a good show. Congratulations!"

As he turned away, the sous-chef called after him, "Good night, monsieur.

And do not forget."

Puzzled, Peter stopped. "Forget what?"

"What I have already said. The 'ot-shot 'otel, monsieur, that you and I could make."

Half amused, half thoughtful, Peter threaded his way through the banquet tables toward the ballroom outer doorway.

He had gone most of the distance when he was aware of something out of place. He stopped, glancing around, uncertain what it was. Then abruptly he realized. Dr. Ingram, the fiery little president of the Dentistry Congress, should have been presiding at this, one of the main events of the convention. But the doctor was neither at the president's position nor anywhere else at the long head table.

Several delegates were table hopping, greeting friends in other sections of the room. A man with a hearing aid stopped beside Peter. "Swell turnout, eh?"

"It certainly is. I hope you enjoyed your dinner."

"Not bad."